To Keep an Iron Crown
by ZosiaDetroit
Summary: Achren's origin story, told in her own words. Her life spirals back on itself darkly. Evil is not born, but chosen.


_Fair Warning: Consider the rating of this to be T+. It contains some pretty harsh/adult topics, but they are touched upon so obliquely that I did not think an M-rating was warranted. If even brief allusions to violence and abuse (of various types) are too difficult for you to read, I would advise skipping this one._

* * *

_"You do not know me as well as you think, Gwydion."_

_—Achren, The Book of Three—_

* * *

Ages, and ages, and ages ago, in the time before Prydain was yet Prydain, two sisters lived: she and I, myself and she. Two future queens—born on the same day; one face and its mirror-twin; the finest beauties and keenest minds in all the land, if legends be believed. Enchantment coursed through us like water through Great Avren, potent and deep. Our vision was clear as sunlight. We were as flush with life as the land itself—a rich land of peace and plenty. We would be its guardians, in time, from north to south and east to west.

Then, the invaders came. From across the dark and churning sea, they came in swift boats, with blades in their hands and death upon their backs. They burned the grain in the fields and the people in their beds. The high priestess and her acolytes, they put to the sword—of one sort or another, and many times both. The sacred ground, they desecrated with blood and filth, bile and gore—consecrated it for their own gods of war, and wealth, and conquest.

When all was wrought to ruin, they dragged us sisters before their king. They stood us like cattle before him—two sisters prized; two spirits linked; the only two still living of all our kin—bound by foreign magic and unable to break free. And he offered us a choice.

"No need for two queens," he said—one gem from the old crown was an asset worth the risk; two would be reckless greed. Faced with equal beauty, he would take the stronger of the two. He pressed iron knives into our hands—stood back and watched, eyes glinting more coldly than the metal blades.

My sister spat at his feet—cursed his head—swore she would rather be slain than submit. She looked to me, then, waiting to hear the same. Her eyes went as wide as my silence.

I made my choice. Bargain struck. If she would die, then I would survive.

It was so simple. So quick. One iron stroke—one crimson slash—and she was collapsing into my arms, spilling her blood across my chest—spilling her life out while my own heart died. So simple. So quick. Like slaughtering a calf.

We sank to the earth, my sister and I—fell in a pool of blood and tears. I retched. He _smiled_.

"Now _this_ one is worthy of a crown," said he.

* * *

Years upon years I spent by his side—a fair queen for a foul brute. And I served him well. I swallowed my hatred, and smiled through my torment, and salted my food with tears when his back was turned. I waited. I watched. I learned. I followed the ravens and carrion crows flocking to the battlefields and hovering around the gallows, feasting. They taught me well how to survive: death is everywhere, comes to everyone; feed upon it and you will never go hungry. So I did. When he put men under my command, I plied their weapons to benefit us both. He praised my ruthlessness—gave me sweet kisses and sparkling gems as a prize.

In time, he began to question why I bore him no children—why his poison seed always withered before it came to fruit. He was right to ask—it was no ill luck. He tried to rattle my tongue loose and shake an answer from my lips, but found my will was too strong to untie. He thought to cast me aside, but soon enough remembered the sharpness of my mind—much too fine a blade to lose. By the time a third child took root, I knew powerful magic could be wrought from a future cut short before weaving began. After that, he wondered why I did not age—why my hair spun to silver overnight and my womb went entirely empty, but no lines creased my brow. Bargain struck. I made my choice. I would be vessel for my life alone, and carry it until the seas ran dry. Never have I encountered a life I valued more highly than my own.

Year upon year, I waited. I watched. I learned. I toiled until enchantment ran like fire in my veins and lightning from my fingertips—until darkness was no veil and distance no obstacle. I threaded words of silver into men's ears until I held their minds in glinting chains—pulled them along at my pleasure like dogs on a leash. Even Gwyn had no finer death-hounds than I. I caressed them like silk and intoxicated them like wine, and turned them loose on hunt after hunt. But even they failed to catch my most desired prey. One by one, they fell at his feet. He laughed and called me Nightshade—his sweet little assassin—then gave me bruises to match its dark fruit. I watched. I waited.

And my time came. He stumbled. I swept in like a falcon upon a faltering beast. Upon the altar-stone I laid him—spread-eagled for all to see. "You tore my heart from my breast while I still breathed," said I. "Made me live with iron and rubies in its place. I think it only fair that you now share my fate." A sharp blade, I took into my hands—split his ribs with magic—carved out his beating heart—dropped every gem he ever gave me into the void. He screamed. I smiled.

"_Now_ I am worthy of a crown," said I.

* * *

The realm once lost was mine again, from north to south and east to west. I was the center around which all things spiraled—flowing to me and from me, by the depth of my power and the force of my will. I was swift justice and unchallenged might. I was certain. I was absolute. I was a world unto myself—untouchable dominion.

Then Arawn emerged from the shadows. At first, I thought he was merely another tool come to my hand—a fair instrument, and a strong one, but no more. But I watched. I learned. He bowed to me and bent to my will, but no coward or sycophant was he. Never did he shy from a chase. Never did he try to placate me with full coffers and empty praise. Never did he shun my gaze—or expect me to lower mine. And in those dark eyes, layered behind my own reflection, I saw a future so glorious it put the towering peak of Mount Dragon to shame. If I myself was a world entire, together we could be infinite.

He was like no other man who trod this earth. His magic was molten iron in a crucible, formless and raw, waiting for a mold to give it shape. I took it in. I let it sear me from the inside out, until my skin crackled, and my mind danced like flame, and the heart I had thought long dead glowed hot as coals. He burned me to ash and essence, and worshipped the stark beauty of what was revealed. He watched. He learned. I hammered, and hardened, and tempered him in the forge of my knowledge until his skill equaled mine. And then, at the last, shape-shifter that he was, he came like water to a parched throat—soothing and sweet. I had not even known that I thirsted, and suddenly that thirst could not be slaked. I drank deep. I drowned myself in him and counted it a gift.

In time, we learned of the enchanted cauldron—Black Crochan—dark womb to birth the undead and deathless. Our armies were vast, and fearsome as dragons, but their ferocity would have no limit with Cauldron-Born among their ranks. So I sent Arawn forth, to claim the prize at any cost. He went to the Marshes of Morva. He bargained with the fates. He left a man and returned a shadow—but he did not return empty-handed. One by one, body by body, he filled the cauldron and brought forth an invincible battle host. I surveyed the growing horde from atop my high throne. He toiled. He watched. He waited.

Then his time came. I stepped aside for but a moment. He swept in like smoke through an open door. When I returned to the Great Hall and cast my eyes upon the throne, my own visage stared back at me. "No need for two rulers," it said. One skillful hand could wield Prydain—two would be a hindrance and a risk. Having grasped my power, he would cast away the sheath. Abdication. He had spoken the declaration with my tongue—sealed the document with my hand—prepared my departure to Spiral Castle at dawn. I raged. He smiled.

"Now _I_ am worthy of the crown," said he.

* * *

_Author's Note: Achren decided to invade my brain for a while, and the more I considered her character, the more she seemed like a (possibly) tragic figure. This was an exploration of what experiences might have driven her down the path of evil and destruction, even if she did not begin life as a corrupt individual. Those experiences do not excuse the violence she subsequently wrought on the people of Prydain; but I think it provides some explanation for the bitter, desperate, power-hungry, and vengeance-seeking character she is in canon. Please leave a comment if something comes to mind - even one-word comments and emojis are welcome feedback!_


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